


That Friendship Lasts

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:43:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is staring at the wall, like every evening. Then someone who's worried about him knocks on the door. As it turns out, Lestrade is John's "handler" now. Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Friendship Lasts

He's spending the evening – naturally, it's not as if he has anything better to do, these days – in his new, tiny, uncomfortable, oh-so-quiet, why is it so quiet? flat. Though he's not sure that "spending" is the right word.

He's not reading anything.

He's not watching telly. Crap telly isn't fun anymore, not when there's no Mrs. Hudson – and he feels guilty when he thinks about her, of course he does, she's alone now too, but he simply can't go back, he can't – and no... other person to complain or make fun of the programmes.

He's not even drinking tea – though, to be honest, it's not like he drinks a lot of tea anymore, he doesn't think he ever did drink as much tea as in the eighteen months with S- him in his entire life, and nowadays, if he drinks anything, it's stronger than tea, because he needs something stronger. Seven percent stronger. Or forty percent stronger. It's all the same to him. He doesn't care.

Instead, he's staring blankly at the wall (who ever looked at an eggshell and thought "That would make a good colour"? It's blank, boring and uninteresting – it fits John's life now. It didn't use to, but now it does. He hates it for it, and he doesn't care you can't really hate a colour. He does). He already knows every crack in the wall, every bump, every little hole where someone once hung up a picture (why should they? It's not like you can make this place homely. But then – maybe they weren't as broken as John. Maybe they were hopeful, waiting for better times. A sentiment John has all but forgotten). Even by London cheap accommodation (no, no, cheap flat, cheap _flat_ , you are starting to sound like – him) standards, it's an ugly wall. John should know. He stares at it every evening.

And when he comes back from the store, because even bottles become empty after a while. Oh, and now and then he has to eat. Because, somewhere, deep, deep inside him, there's still something like a survival instinct. If there wasn't, he would have – well, done something with the gun he still has, by now. And he doesn't mean shooting at the wall. Though it would deserve it. For being so ugly. And bleak.

He stares at it when he comes back from the cemetery as well.

And when he's trying to ignore the cane that's always next to him again. And this time it's here to stay, he can tell.

And when he doesn't have anything better to do. Which is always, really.

It's not like he's capable of working. And yet, his account doesn't seem to ever get empty. Must be Mycroft, no other person it can be. At first, when there was still something in John that could be called an emotion, he was angry and thought about rejecting the money. But he soon realized that accepting it is probably the only way he can punish Mycroft, because he doesn't think he really cares his brother is d- gone. At least it takes away a bit of his money. It's all John can do.

So, he is spending the evening in his flat, staring at the wall.

And then there's a knock on the door.

It's disconcerting, this interruption of his routine. He's not even stared at the wall for three hours today, all in all. He contemplates not answering.

But then there's a second knock. Then a third. And soon, it's perfectly clear that whoever decided to interrupt John's wall-staring is not going to go away.

So, John sighs, stops staring and limps to the door. He is unshaven, he's lost weight, he can't really remember if he took a shower this morning, but it's been so long since he's cared about such things, the thought barely registers.

He opens the door.

It's Lestrade. Of all people. One part of John knows he tried to warn S-him, one part knows he was his friend and was forced to arrest him by his superior.

The bigger part of him doesn't care about the rational part of his brain and decides to slam the door in the DI's face.

Before he can do that, however, Lestrade flashes his ID (and something in John whispers "Well, he can't steal it anymore, can he?" but he ignores it) and says: "I'm here in official capacity, John. Please, don't make this any harder."

"It's Doctor Watson for you, Lestrade." Lestrade winces, and later, John will realize he pronounced the name in a certain derogatory way that is so familiar to both of them. Later, but not now.

"Alright, Doctor Watson. Sorry to disturb you. May I come in?"

"Don't have much of a choice, I suppose." He lets him in. Lestrade is the first visitor he's had in the four months he's lived here. He decides, now that he has the experience, that he doesn't like having visitors.

He doesn't offer Lestrade something to drink – tea or otherwise – or even a seat down. The DI doesn't ask.

"So –", there's no use in being polite, so why bother, "what do you want? As far as I know, the investigation in – the investigation is over."

"It is." Now, that he sees him in the light of the little lamp that John only turns on because not even he has yet mastered the art of staring at a wall in the dark – the DI looks like hell. Exhausted, he's lost weight, too, and – sad. He looks sad. And, suddenly, just like that, there's an emotion inside John, after almost four months (the last time he really felt grief, before the numbness set in – he almost welcomed it), he feels something. Something like pity. And something like – comradeship? Because they're both grieving? He dismisses the thought. Lestrade has no reason to grieve – he refuses to believe he thought of John's best friend as something other than a useful detection device. It makes things easier, to dismiss thoughts and refuse others. John found that out quickly.

"You kept your badge, anyway. You must be relieved." It comes out sharper than he intended, because despite everything, he knows S- his best friend always thought Lestrade was the only policeman worth talking to in London, the only one with a brain, and he knows that the DI loves his works, lives for it in fact.

"Yes, I kept it. There wasn't even much of an inquiry. Must be Mycroft." Their eyes really meet for the first time, and John asks himself if he looks as haunted as Lestrade. If he does – well, he's happy he doesn't care what he looks like anymore. "And you were right – the investigation is over. It was clear what happened, and way. Of course, there are a lot of cold cases being re-opened now, but –" Lestrade stops mid-sentence. John doesn't want to hear the rest of it anyway.

The DI adopts a stance John recognizes: The policeman on duty. Oh, well. John doesn't want to keep up the small talk. Let him talk and then send him on his way. He still has a lot of staring to do.

"I've been informed that there is a suspicion of substance abuse– " He doesn't get any further, because John gets angry for the first time in months and explodes. Just explodes.

"SUBSTANCE ABUSE!? Oh, this is great, you're pretending this is a drug's bust now? Why are you here? Oh, this is Mycroft, isn't it, I suppose now that Sherlock's dead, you are my handler –" He stops there because he realized he's said and thought Sherlock's name for the first time since he begged him not to be dead all those months ago. And it felt good. And now he's confused.

Lestrade, who's been silent throughout his tirade, answers slowly. "I still don't do what Mycroft says – most of the time, anyway. And I... Oh, bloody hell, I'm just going to tell you the truth. I phoned your therapist. I was worried. She said you'd only been to her once, after... Sherlock's death" (so John isn't the only one who has trouble thinking about it, apparently) "and... and I wanted to see you, to check up on you, so I asked her if you could maybe be abusing anti-depressants, even though she never prescribed you any, and she said yes because... because, I guess, she heard the desperation in my voice."

John is silent. For a few minutes. Then, he says the first thing that pops into his head. "You look like hell."

Lestrade laughs – a cold, bitter laugh. "well, not being able to sleep because you keep seeing a certain face behind your eyelids does that to you."

And John understands. He really does. He may have blamed the DI, like everyone – his superiors, the press, the public (he was the one who "discovered" Sherlock, after all), maybe Mycroft, perhaps even Sherlock, in the end, did. But it is nothing compared to how much the DI blames himself. It's not just exhaustion and grief John sees in his eyes; it's guilt. Pure, undiluted guilt, always there beneath the surface. And he can tell Lestrade didn't expect forgiveness today. He really just wanted to check up on John. When, most likely, the DI needs to be checked up on himself.

John realizes how long he's been silent when Lestr– when _Greg_ , his friend, clears his throat. "Right, well you're still alive and not on drugs, so – I'd better be off." And he turns. And John panics. He doesn't want to be alone and staring at the wall again. He needs someone who liked, who loved Sherlock too, to grieve with him. Mrs. Hudson was too close to them both, Molly can't look at him without crying, and Mycroft– let's not go there. There's only Greg.

"Wait", he says, but the DI only stops when he adds "Greg. Wait. We could– I–" and then he remembers something and actually smiles for the first time in so, so long and says "I'm not dead – let's have dinner. I can't remember when I last ate a proper meal, and you could use one too."

Greg smiles at that. Answers "Yes, I suppose you're right."

And then they leave the flat – the first evening John hasn't spent staring at the wall in four months – and they have dinner and the actually talk and laugh, if only a little, and it's fine. It's all fine.

After that, they meet each other on a regular basis. Greg (who apparently manages to sleep again by this point) even helps John with the few boxes he has when he moves back to Baker Street a few months later and comforts Mrs. Hudson who is beside herself with joy.

And Greg – though they don't know it yet – will be the one to restrain John when Sherlock comes back, two and a half years after John moved back into 221B, and the doctor wants to hit him until he lies bleeding on the ground. He will then be the one who tells the two to "simply hug and get on with it", which they will do, and about a minute after that, he will be the one to be hugged both by John and Sherlock at the same time. They will then land on the floor, and all three will dissolve into laughter.

That's what friends are for, after all.


End file.
